


The Cuckoo and the Nightingale

by bastet_in_april



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A bit of poetry, F/F, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Ineffable Spouses, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Medieval Period, Other, Poisoning, beguines, medieval bestiaries, more than occasional serpents, occasional nightingales, references to unicorns, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:35:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27323602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastet_in_april/pseuds/bastet_in_april
Summary: Crowley had presented herself to the gentry, wasting no time in proclaiming herself a princess of a distant land, cast upon their doorstep after a series of undisclosed calamities but determined to make her knowledge of alchemy, astronomy, and healing useful in recompense for the hospitality of the court.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25
Collections: Ineffable Wives Exchange 2020





	The Cuckoo and the Nightingale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Waywarder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywarder/gifts).



_"Ye, nyghtyngale," he seyde, "holde thee stille!_   
_For Love hath no reson but his wille;_   
_For ofte sithe untrew folke he esith,_   
_And trew folke so bittirly displesith,_   
_That for defaute of grace hee let hem spille._

\-- _The Boke of Cupide, God of Love, or The Cuckoo and the Nightingale_ by Sir John Clanvowe

***

Crowley swept into the Parisian court like the first breath of spring into a barren frosty field. The nobility were all stirred to curiosity when she turned up at the palace gates, resplendent in black silk embroidered in patterns none of them have ever seen before, her scarlet hair slipping out from the confines of the citrine-laden escoffion that curled up like a pair of horns above her head, her face demurely veiled with expensive black lace. She was clearly a noble lady of the highest station, and no doubt widowed in her mourning black, the courtiers whispered to one another, but what was she doing arriving in a carriage with no chaperone but the driver who evaporated like smoke as soon as his passenger had been delivered? Crowley had presented herself to the gentry, wasting no time in proclaiming herself a princess of a distant land, cast upon their doorstep after a series of undisclosed calamities but determined to make her knowledge of alchemy, astronomy, and healing useful in recompense for the hospitality of the court. What foriegn land had she come from?

“Um, it’s called…” Crowley wracked her brain for a suitable name, before settling on a classic. “The land of Dis. You won’t have heard of it. Very far away.”

“Hm. Is that in Asia?” A Duke speculated. “I’m sure I’ve read the name before.”

“Nope. Further away. You definitely haven’t read the name, ever,” Crowley replied quickly.

She’d quickly set herself up as indispensable to the lords and ladies of the castle, making vague proclamations about the future based on the position of planets and stars (which was a bit of a laugh, really--that nebula had nothing to do with whether Lady Isabeau would have a summer wedding, and Crowley ought to know), providing hangover cures and remedies for cramp (composed of miscellaneous herbs and a bit of ash aided by a demonic miracle), flashing occasional bits of gold and saying infuriatingly vague things about philosopher’s stones and alkahest, and selling foolish young people faking love potions. All while getting up to the properly demonic business of stirring up the court’s hornet nest of gossip, political maneuvering, and petty jealousy.

The only downside was how religious everyone was. Crowley had a devil of a time (ha!) explaining her refusal to attend church with the rest of the nobility. Finally she had had to make up a fib about having made certain holy vows that required her to undertake her religious devotions in silence and solitude. Even then, she had gotten a lot of side-eye from the more pious ladies until she’d fibbed about going to the nearby beguinage to receive communion and confession from the priest who ministered to the beguines there. The court had eased up on their judgement after that, and Crowley had been free to stir up chaos without having to worry about potentially being singled out as a witch or a heretic for avoiding the church like it burned her (which it did).

Today, Crowley was pushing bits of roasted wood pigeon around on her plate uninterestedly, waiting for her wineglass to be refilled while talking up a fake unicorn horn that she was trying to sell to an idiotic baronet for a small fortune. “S’great stuff,” Crowley insisted. “Grind it down into powder and drink it with some milk. It’ll cure any poison.” 

The baronet smiled sleazily, and patted Crowley’s hand. “Ah, I’m sure I don’t need to worry about being poisoned. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill me, my lady.”

Crowley stared at his hand until it was hastily removed. “Really?” she asked, skeptically. “I can.” The boy with the wine jug topped up her glass, and she slugged it back gratefully. The minstrel was reciting moralizing poetry, now, about a nightingale and a cuckoo arguing about whether love was a source of joy or trouble. Crowley wished he’d go back to singing about fair ladies and brave knights. At least that was catchy. “And virgins! They use virgins to catch unicorns, y’know. Cures them, too!”

The baronet looked caught between interest and confusion. “When you say ‘cures,’ what exactly--”

He never got to finish his sentence, let alone receive the clarification, because at that moment a messenger, a whip thin boy in a quilted green jacket burst into the hall, escorted by the guards who quickly announced his business. “The most urgent and dire news from the beguinage, your majesties!”

The messenger had finally caught his breath, and added. “The beguines are in the courtyard. They have brought one of their number here for healing--Lady Fell has been poisoned!”

The court erupted into dismayed and excited whispers. Crowley felt as though she had been struck. She grabbed the baronet next to her by the shirt front, hissing, “Lady Fell. Describe her to me.”

“But--you’ve been to the beguinage--surely you’ve met her? Everyone knows her, she hands out bread to the needy every other morning, even when there is scant flour available she finds a way. It’s miraculous. Even the beasts of the forest regard her with sweetened tempers; the nightingale flocks to sing to her, and hares will take crumbs from her hands. She’s a blonde woman, always dressed in white, and of middle age. She has no family, despite being a laywoman. They say that she came from Liège, but who can know? She is a very strange person, but no stranger than you, Lady Crowley.” Suddenly the baronet’s face lit up brightly. “Oh, but your unicorn horn can surely cure whatever poison troubles her!”

Crowley dropped the baronet back into his seat, and bolted for the courtyard.

Her plaster and chalk dust-coated “unicorn horn” would help no one, let alone Aziraphale, who should have no difficulty shaking off an earthly poison. So why hadn’t she?

***  
  
Aziraphale didn’t often set herself up as part of local religious groups--they tended to be strict, hierarchical, and very judgemental about the sorts of worldly pleasures Aziraphale enjoyed. In other words, a lot like Heaven. She’d had a brief stint as a monk a few centuries ago, which she had enjoyed because it had allowed her access to so many books. Being a beguine didn’t grant her access to vast libraries, but it was fairly relaxed. Most of the beguinage were laypeople, and they weren’t confined or cloistered, free to interact with, and minister to, the people of Paris. There was still a bit of judgement from her peers, but Aziraphale was mostly left to go about her business in peace. 

The thing was, Aziraphale really, really missed having access to books. When a merchant had brought a few into town, she had produced every coin she had (and a few she miracled away from the rich who wouldn’t feel their lack), in order to purchase a beautifully illuminated copy of Physiologus. Too late, she had seen the priest who ministered to the beguinage, his sharp and scrutinizing gaze suspicious at this unexpected wealth of gold from a poor holy woman, one who was apparently well versed in reading more than her latin bible, memorized by rote. Aziraphale had flushed, stammered an excuse about an inheritance from a wealthy relative, and scrambled back to her rooms. There, she had traced the painted letters of the bestiary, reading about the wise coot who would not stir himself to strange climes, but who would care for other birds’ fledglings, the jaculus, a winged serpent that sprang down upon its prey from the boughs of tall trees, and the nightingale, who loves music so much it will sing until it dies. The malachite and lapis, carmine red and lead white, the shapes of the letters on the soft vellum, and the illustrated creatures imagined onto the page--all of these have been missed, and they are a comfort to Aziraphale when the priest begins to press her with questions about her money, her background, and her family.

“Why should it matter?” Aziraphale finally responded, when he could be put off no further. “Everything I own is God’s. All of my wealth is the wealth of the church, and shall go to it when I pass from this world.”

In retrospect, adding that last might have been a mistake.

The priest had let her go, looking satisfied with the response, and Aziraphale had thought no more about it until her wine had been laced with arsenic three days later. That hadn’t posed much of a problem for an angel. Aziraphale had simply willed the stuff out of her system. It had rather spoiled the pleasure of drinking the wine, though.

The priest watched her intently, looking increasingly worried and aggrieved when Aziraphale had failed to keel over. Aziraphale had smiled demurely at him.

A week later, he’d tried again. Mercury this time, added to the mixture for a honey cake that was presented to Aziraphale as a gift. It had entirely spoiled the taste of the cake, and Aziraphale had had to perform a healing miracle on the poor cook, who liked to sample what she baked, even when it was commissioned especially for someone else. Enough was enough.

Aziraphale had cornered the man after the next church service in which he ministered to the beguines. “This needs to stop. You nearly killed that poor woman who you had cook up that evil cake. She was an innocent; she had no idea you had doctored the ingredients with a poison.”

“I never wanted to kill her, I wanted to kill you,” the priest hissed, eyes wide and terrified. “What are you?”

“Well--”

“Whatever evil magic you command, it won’t be enough! I have the ear of a demon; he’s given me a poison not even you can survive!” The priest produced a wickedly curved black horn from the pouch at his belt, and stabbed it wildly at Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s hands came up in startled defense, and the horn scratched the skin of her palm, leaving a cruel red tear in its wake. 

Aziraphale shuddered, feeling suddenly chilled. “Oh dear,” she muttered, and slumped against a low table that held a basin for oblations. It tipped over with a clatter. The room went dim around her, and there was a distant sound of the clamor of voices raised in alarm.

***

The priest did in fact have the ear of a demon. Stolas was a refined sort, bestowing knowledge to those who would do evil with it, seeking wealth and acclaim through false prophecy, and poisoning their enemies along the way. He was old-fashioned, and liked to focus on damning one soul at a time, preferably the educated who considered themselves too wise to be tricked by a demon. He also preferred to do his tempting remotely, passing advice and dark poisons through a cracked silver mirror, rather than traveling up from the depths of Hell.

Crowley took one look at the priest in amongst the cluster of panicking beguines, and saw the stain of Stolas’ work immediately. It wasn’t anything about the priest, himself--humans were capable of great evil without any demonic assistance--it was the distinct whiff of brimstone that lingered on his clerical robes. Crowley hissed.

Aziraphale was bundled up on a makeshift stretcher, carefully tucked into a pile of woolen blankets. She was ghost-pale, except for a high, feverish flush on her cheeks. It was strange to see her unconscious--Aziraphale avoided sleep. Crowley wanted to smooth her hands over that furrowed brow, until it settled into peace. Better yet, she wanted to curl up next to Aziraphale, to see Aziraphale awaken without pain, her face melting into a smile at the sight of Crowley.

“She’s been poisoned,” the young beguine attending to Aziraphale told her. “Father Abelard said she was struck by an adder, but he startled the serpent away. See, look at her poor hand!” 

Aziraphale’s palm had been punctured in a long gash. The wound was red and inflamed, and there was a dark shadow in its puckered edges. It smelled of brimstone. Crowley’s eyes narrowed viciously behind her veil. “No snake did that.”

The baronet had finally made his way to the courtyard and was loudly proclaiming her medical efficacy and knowledge to the beguines. “You should listen to her. The Lady Crowley is a princess of Dis, and possesses all the great medical and magical knowledge of that distant land! If she says it wasn’t a snake, she’ll soon find the source and provide a cure to this poison. She has the horn of a unicorn, which is the cure to all poisons and maladies, and nearly impossible to obtain! One must sacrifice a virgin to placate the horned beast!” He looked very self-satisfied at how taken aback the beguines appeared at this display of knowledge. Crowley rolled her eyes behind her veil. Still, it would do, as an excuse for a demonic miracle. She reached into her dress and produced a white piece of horn that hadn’t been there a moment before. The crowd oohed and aahed obligingly. With great solemnity, Crowley crushed the chalk and plaster piece of horn in her palm. After a brief moment of thought, she willed it to be icing sugar, instead. Dusting her index finger in the stuff, she pressed the finger gently to Aziraphale gentle lip, and then lifted it away, leaving a sugary imprint behind. As she performed this bit of flim flam, Crowley focused her demonic power on the shadow inside Aziraphale, driving it out with a concentrated effort of willpower. The thing about Stolas was that he was lazy. He might outrank Crowley, but Crowley was much more invested in the outcome of this poisoning than Stolas, who had succeeded in his goal of tempting the priest to attempted murder already. What did he care whether or not Father Abelard succeeded in the attempt. Crowley, on the other hand, cared very much.

Aziraphale stirred, her nose wrinkling in confusion. She licked her lips sleepily, and smiled faintly at the trace of sugar there. Her blue eyes opened and found Crowley’s unerringly, despite the heavy lace that concealed them. “Crowley…?”

There was a cheer from the courtiers and the beguines around them, and Aziraphale startled. 

“You were poisoned, apparently,” Crowley explained dryly. “Bitten by an adder.”

Aziraphale shook her head. “Poisoned, yes. By an adder, no. Father Abelard was rather keen to hasten my death, so that he could gain access to any wealth I might bequeath to the local parish.” 

The priest purpled in outrage. “I did no such thing! Lady Fell is clearly hysterical. Surely no one will believe her word over that of a man of the cloth?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, her eyes moving up and down Aziraphale in a lazy path. The angel shivered happily. 

“Lady Fell is a holy woman--a veritable angel--and she doesn’t look very hysterical to me.”

“God will defend me against this slander!” Father Abelard hissed. “Just wait, there will be a sign to vindicate me against these lies! You’ll see.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Crowley muttered. “Now that Stolas has gotten what he wants from you, he’s not likely to stick around and do you any favors.”

“It was a snake! A foul serpent!”

Crowley snapped her fingers sharply behind her back. The ground around Father Abelard seemed to come alive with snakes disgorging themselves from the ground, appearing from between the cobblestone, and out of the kitchen garden. Father Abelard shrieked. “Well,” Crowley remarked. “How’s that for a sign. I don’t think these snakes like you lying about them like that, Father.” 

Father Abelard gibbered and fled, making for the gates. The snakes followed gleefully at his heels.

Aziraphale wound her hand around Crowley’s, tangling their fingers together and squeezing. “I take it that my miraculous recovery is due to your intervention? Should I thank you?” Aziraphale looked hopeful.

Crowley grinned. “Well, me and the unicorn. How about dinner, instead of thanks? They do this thing with a wood pigeon stuffed inside of a pheasant that I bet you’ll think is brilliant, and the wine’s not bad…”

“My dear, I think that sounds lovely.”

As they made their way back into the cavernous hall of the castle, Crowley’s hand squeezed Aziraphale’s back. 

***

_And then come the nyghtyngale to me_   
_And seyde, "Frende, forsoth I thanke thee,_   
_That thou hast lyked me thus to rescowe,_   
_And oon avowe to Love I avowe,_   
_That al this May I wol thy singer be."_

\-- _The Boke of Cupide, God of Love, or The Cuckoo and the Nightingale_ by Sir John Clanvowe


End file.
